Valen

The invasion wouldn't wait for anyone, no matter how much they hurt. And so, Valen ended up leaning heavily on the fellow soldiers of his platoon.

There were two dozen prisoners who needed to be watched carefully, but Corporal Ivan Strauss had taken over that detail. He had commandeered the last train car, left everyone to sit as close to the back end as possible, and had Vincent weld the door shut. If the prisoners had any fight left in them, they'd be facing vengeful soldiers with Salamanders, and each shot would cost an insurrectionist not only their life, but someone else's along with theirs.

There was a report to write, ideally while events were still fresh. But Lieutenant Varnell had taken that upon herself. She had asked him questions, including a detailed impression of how long he had attempted to ward the mob off with a practice sword. But a couple of minutes of answers was all he contributed to that cause — Emily asked for no more.

People needed to be consoled. The people Valen killed were still people — still had families, still had lives that were now lonelier and darker. But surprisingly, Mack had taken to that task. He would wait at the junction point for each of the coming trains from Barleybarrel, and somehow before the train was told to move on, managed to inform a loved one of the death.

Mildred had taken rearming the platoon on herself. Sarina was running drills with Roderick, the Tolun sisters, and anyone else interested in practicing to distract themselves from both what happened, and what was still coming for them.

And so, despite having been at the First Army's muster point for a few hours by now, nothing was expected of Valen until a messenger found him sitting by himself, honing a sword he knew was already sharp, trying as hard as he could to not think about what had happened.

What he had done.

"Master Sergeant?" someone asked.

A messenger. The young woman looked entirely too clean, too fresh, too alert for an army and a City besieged. It was still hard to believe, with everything Valen had been through, that only the Crafters had yet tried to stand.

"Yes?" Valen asked, as he stood up.

She saluted as soon as he was on his feet. It was surprising, and a little unnerving. No one saluted a corporal, and only the newest of graduated recruits would give a sergeant one without being prompted. For most of the lower ranks, saluting anyone less than a captain was only done if absolutely necessary. Valen could only recall needing to salute his former lieutenant twice since she took command of his platoon. And on both occasions, his captain had been overlooking the scene.

Valen returned the salute. "Master Sergeant Valen Redgrave, fourth platoon, first company. Am I who you were looking for?"

"Yes, sir," the messenger replied. She blinked, and looked at him again. "Sorry sir. It's just, you weren't what I was expecting.

Valen tried his best to push what he was feeling down. To put it aside, wear it like a piece his equipment. The invasion wouldn't wait. "What were you expecting, soldier?"

"I thought you'd be older. Like a former captain busted down to the ranks for chewing out his lazy superiors. Or an instructor sergeant who demoted himself so he could return to the fight. My corporal was convinced you were just made up by the army to help inspire us. Like how we're pretending there's a fourth Ranger platoon made up of people picked from the fields."

Anger swept across him like a hot breeze. Gone in a heartbeat, but long enough for his right hand to twitch towards his sword. For a moment, he wanted to yell at the poor girl, insult her for even suggesting information passed over the comms, information he himself passed, was untrue. But that moment passed, and a different realization came. And it left him cold.

"You're passing on stories of us?" Valen asked.

"Of course we are," she gushed, before she caught herself. "Sir. Sorry sir. But yes, we do pass on stories about all of you. You in particular, sir. You've been a famous name on the comms since the invasion started."

"My message about the Crafters at the wall?"

"Earlier, sir. When you stayed behind to rescue those kids in that work camp. Sir, it's..." she trailed off, saluted again, and then held out her hand. "It's an honour, sir."

Valen shook her hand. "Are things that bad elsewhere, that my story is treated as good news?"

"It's that bad, sir. I'll tell you, but I'm also supposed to take you to Colonel Dremora. You've been summoned," she explained.

Valen nodded. Summoned, likely to a hearing, to account for the blood on his hands. "Lead on," he managed to say.

"I'm not supposed to say this, but I relay everything that comes in from the Western Walls," she said as she walked. "We lost a lot of people during the first breaches. Camping work crews, the soldiers on the watch who tried to save them, and even more when others came to light the fields the Gloam claimed. We think we managed to bring in about two years worth of food, but it will be through hard rationing, and refugees are already being put into the mines."

"Are the districts so stingy about accommodating refugees?" Valen asked.

"Some. Lower Central has opened its doors wide, though. Even Oversight's headquarters is now accommodating hundreds. But they're risking letting diseases spread unchecked if they pack in more people, and the fringe districts simply shouldn't be taking people, since they're likely to be hit by the Golems."

"There's a lot of space in High Central," Valen said.

The young soldier laughed at that. As did Valen, after a moment, though the humour struck him as uniquely tragic.

Shadows passed as they walked into the watchtower through a tall arch. They were following the tracks set into the wall, and this close to the City the watchtowers were built to allow trains to pass through them. The tower itself was also higher, and sentries with spyglasses could be seen at its battlements.

Passing through, a crowd of soldiers worked around a piece of equipment, with a sergeant standing behind them barking orders. Almost as if the sergeant noticed Valen's attention, he turned swiftly, and his eyes fell on both Valen's shoulder and the scarf on his neck.

"Master Sergeant," the man bellowed, turning crisply on his heels and standing at attention. The other soldiers working nearby turned to look, and seeing their sergeant's reaction, all imitated his stance. "Good to have you back, sir."

With the other soldiers standing, Valen could see the piece of equipment they were working around. A long steel tube, as wide around as a residential pipe, set on a cart with springs and large wheels.

A Valkyrie. Valen's eyes were drawn further down the wall, seeing another similar sized group of soldiers nearby around another one. And another, at least two dozen until the distance and crowd obscured his sight. "It's good to be back," Valen said, and meant it. To see so much of the City's strength gathered here, and comparing it to how few they had been at the wall and Barleybarrel, it felt like something had been lifted off his shoulders.

Valen stopped in front of the sergeant, and asked, "how many guns do we have here?"

"Fifty, sir. Which is slightly more than every artillery specialist we have in First Army," the sergeant replied. He turned to Valen's guide, and asked, "Delila, is this him?"

"It is. This is Valen Redgrave."

"Burn me," someone whispered, one of the other soldiers by the Valkyrie.

Valen realized then that they were all still standing at attention. "As you were, please. This isn't a parade, and I'm not an officer."

"You're a Ranger, sir," the sergeant replied, and the point wasn't lost on Valen. "Barleybarrel's wall."

Valen had no counter for that, though he was relieved to see the other soldiers relax, and turn back to the gun. Valen glanced at the sergeant's shoulder, lingering on the picture of a cannon between the rank pips. It was a rank none of the other soliders around the gun carried. "Sergeant, who else has fired a Valkyrie before now?"

"None, sir," the sergeant replied. "But we don't have enough specialists in the entire army to properly man all of these guns."

"It's a good thing you're here for them," Valen said, and the sergeant looked relieved to hear it. "I'm not an artillery specialist myself, but would you be willing to hear some unqualified advice?"

"From a Ranger? I guess I'll indulge you, sir."

"Have them fire that gun a few times today. While you're yelling orders at them. Let them feel how hot that barrel gets, smell the smoke, try to load while their eyes are still partially blinded by the muzzle flash from your last shot. They'll be seeing a Golem, and Crafters at work soon."

"I'm under orders to not do exactly that," the sergeant admitted, but it didn't sound like he liked that order.

"I panicked, first time I saw a Gloamtaken. Stuck my sword through it rather than leaving an open wound. Nearly got myself and the people behind me killed," Valen admitted. "I'd rather know what a Valkyrie's cry looks and sounds like, before I have to aim it at a Golem."

The sergeant nodded, thoughtfully. Valen turned to his guide. "Apologies. Best we continue on."

"Sir," Delila said, and lead the way again.

They passed another four guns, before a flash of bright blue light cast new shadows stretching ahead. Valen grinned, and didn't look backwards, as dozens of people from other crews worked on a Valkyrie of their own.

Valen passed what must be two dozen guns, before he saw three that had been left unattended. "These crews already finished their prep work?" Valen asked.

"Three guns were left for the Rangers, sir," Delila replied.

A place of honour. A place to let the rest of the gun crews know the Rangers fought alongside them. And one other reason, likely the only reason that really mattered. "A Crafter at work is a frightening thing to see. Since we've seen it before, it's good that we'll be the ones closest to them."

"You think we'll have Crafters here?" she asked.

"We will. I know a couple, at least, who wouldn't sit this one out," Valen said. And saying it out loud felt like drinking something warm on a cold night at the watch. Noticing the next gun crew they passed had stopped to listen, he raised his voice when he spoke next. "And if you think we have it bad, pity the poor bastards who will have to break the dead Golem apart in order to clear the field."

Delila sputtered and laughed at that, and the nearby gun crew chuckled as they returned to work. A few of them nodded politely, and greeted Valen, saying "Ranger" as he passed.

"Sir?"

Valen almost didn't turn around. For a corporal, being addressed as 'sir' was almost an insult, usually a chiding comment from the fellow soldiers in your battle group for giving too many orders. Even as a sergeant, Valen should recognize every voice that addressed him as if he could give them orders. It took a reminder, and a realization, to make him turn around and address the person speaking to him.

Another corporal. Artillery specialist. Valen wondered if he looked as young, just a couple of days ago. "Thank you, sir. For Barleybarrel. My sergeant was a hairs breadth from stabbing his lieutenant about not being able to take one of the trains there. None of us thought we'd manage to evacuate them in time, not until we knew they'd sent you."

"We are the walls," Valen answered. It helped, being able to say that. Because if he had to think of something to answer this young man's earnestness, Valen knew he'd fail to say something worthy. "And we'll be relying on you and that gun of yours soon."

"Sir," the corporal said.

Back the way Valen was looking, a flash of red fire bloomed, drowning out the horizon and flashing so bright he had to close his eyes for a moment. The howl of the gun hit him like a blow to the chest, even before a small rush of warm wind swept over him.

The corporal thanking him looked back, eyes wide, and surprisingly, looked back at Valen. He wasn't sure what the corporal saw, but whatever it was seemed to relax him, and a small grin spread on the young man's face. He turned to his squad, now staring at him with their mouths open, and said "What, did you think we were going to drop a Golem quietly? This is why I tell you to close your eyes just before you fire, because you could spend the next half-minute blind and useless if you watch the flash from incendiary shot."

Valen chuckled as Delila lead him further down the wall.

But as he walked, Valen's thoughts returned to what had happened over the earlier hours, recalling the looses and the failures, particularly the ones on the train. He knew he should worry for the soldiers now on this wall, who looked to him and his white scarf as if he could stand alone against their enemies. But he didn't want to touch the sword at his side again. He didn't want to hold the weapon he had used to murder Cameron and Hendricks.

The watchtower was now bustling with people, and the doors were wedged open. But beside the door, tucked just out of the way, several people wearing white scarves were waiting. Three of the company's lieutenants, including Volenski and Sandson. His own lieutenant. Gwen. Mack. Mildred. And Vincent.

"I'm sure they can take you the rest of the way, sir," Delila said. She stepped back, paused for a moment, and said, "I, uh, sorry sir, it's not my place to say. But the colonel, I've never actually seen her angry before today. Right now, I'd be afraid for anyone sent in to meet her."

"Thank you," Valen said. The girl saluted in response, turned, and jogged away.

"Kid's underselling it," Lieutenant Sandson said, as soon as the messenger was out of earshot. "I remember the Colonel from her days in the Rangers. Even during the Irondrome mess, she wasn't this upset. I think she wants heads over this one."

"Is that really much of a surprise? We're dumping this mess on her lap in the same breath we're reporting her husband's death," Lieutenant Volenski said. "Though even with all this on her shoulders, I'd rather be following her than anyone else in the City."

"If anyone can drop a Golem in a set-piece operation, it's her," Sandson agreed.

"So we make this as easy as possible on her," Valen agreed. "I'll report, to the point, and accept whatever judgment comes."

Volenski and Sandson nodded, knowing he'd do as expected. Varnell nodded a moment later, more apprehensive, but understanding. The Golems had to be stopped, nothing else matters. Especially not the fate of a single sergeant.

Of everyone in the company, it was only Gwen who looked like she might object. But if anyone understood doing what was needed, it was her.

Perhaps he, alone, would be enough.